


The things that matter

by Teatrolley



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, a very small thing, about bad communication, and how it's sometimes okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:58:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5238788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teatrolley/pseuds/Teatrolley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John isn’t only a spectacle himself, but he also makes something out of Sherlock that he never thought he could be before. He makes Sherlock a good man; one who cares about others again, one who makes sacrifices. He keeps Sherlock alive, and when someone keeps you alive, certainly you matter, and them, too.</p><p>Until he doesn’t keep Sherlock alive any longer. It’s ironic, really, that in becoming a man John Watson could love, Sherlock must leave him."</p><p>_________________</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is bad at communicating, and John Watson is a gentle man</p>
            </blockquote>





	The things that matter

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. Hi. So this is very short, and was written very spur-of-the-moment. I had a single line and some time, and this was the creation. Go on forth and be my guest at reading. Oh, and, shoot me a comment if you do enjoy it, would you?

When he’s a kid, Sherlock is certain that the thing that matters the most is Redbeard. Certainly when you keep someone alive, they matter. When Redbeard is being put down, Sherlock learns a lesson that he carries with him throughout the first good portion of his adult life and then a little further: sometimes the thing that matters, end. 

In his young days, and even some not-so-young, what is important is the high. His life is simply inconvenient periods between the highs, and then them, the short bursting moments of bliss and peace from all the rest. 

Later, when he thinks back, he considers the possibility that Rebeard’s death holds responsibility for his adult-life attitude: What matters is simply, and only, the Work. Ridding himself of all emotions, and biases, it adds up as a simple calculation: Stopping criminals saves people and, objectively, that is a purposeful pursuit. So he devotes most of his time to the cases, and the mind-bending practise of it all. 

Then John comes along and changes everything. Sherlock thinks, that if he ever were to write an autobiography that would have to be the title. Most of his life, now, and the way it has turned out to be formed, comes down to that one meeting between the two of them. Cheesy, yes. But true, also.

John isn’t only a spectacle himself, but he also makes something out of Sherlock that he never thought he could be before. He makes Sherlock a good man; one who cares about others again, one who makes sacrifices. He keeps Sherlock alive, and when someone keeps you alive, certainly you matter, and them, too.

Until he doesn’t keep Sherlock alive any longer. It’s ironic, really, that in becoming a man John Watson could love, Sherlock must leave him.

Then he’s back, and everything is pain and mess and lonely nights, but then sometimes there are small touches or words of care that they’ve never said before, so it’s okay. If it’s what he can get, Sherlock will take it.

It’s a Thursday when John comes to his door with a packed back, and everything changes for a second time. It takes them a couple of months, but in the grand scheme of things, that’s nothing. The important part, here, is that they end up together. 

At first Sherlock has a hard time with the words, even after all this time, even when he’s burning up inside with them. They won’t come out, but John, oh John, is so kind and so patient. Whenever Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, to say “It’s hard to sit next to you, and not kiss you,” or “You’re digging into me and injecting oxygen into my lungs where it’s needed every time you touch my hand,” or “Thank you for keeping me alive,” but his voice fails him and nothing comes out, John will simply smile that small, fond smile of his, and say, “I know.”  
Sherlock can no longer keep control of his sock index because John wears them, and his dressing gowns and old sweatshirts and T-shirts, too, and Sherlock is not an artist, but he thinks that he could win prices if he submitted the view of John Watson in his clothes to all the judges of the world. 

He says it in other ways; the “I love you,” that he can’t seem to get out either. He says it when he makes John tea without being asked first, or when he joins in on telly nights. He tries to say it with his legs spread in trust at midnight, and in the morning when he stays extra long in bed just to watch when John wakes up all groggy and confused; just to be the first thing he sees. He says it when John is kidnapped, and Sherlock kills a man, and afterwards, when he simply holds the man he knows he was destined to love for hours, trying not to shake with all the times they were almost too close.

“John?” Sherlock whispers that night, into the dark, and he’s almost sure that John knows what’s coming.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

When John replies, he has smiles in his voice: “I know,” he says. “You’ve said it already, in so many ways.”

John is always right about the things that matter. Even this.


End file.
